Terminal
by Puckk
Summary: The first time it happens, it's almost an accident. By the end he knows that when Bennet is involved, there are no accidents. Slash. [ClaudeBennet]


Terminal

The first time it happens, it's almost an accident. By the end he knows that when Bennet is involved, there are no accidents.

X

It isn't easy hunting your own kind and no matter how many times Claude reminds himself that he's doing this for a reason (a good reason, a _bloody good_ reason) he forgets far too easily when he's staring into their panicked, terrified eyes. They're always begging; for answers, for sympathy. It makes him crazy. It makes him think.

And thinking is not a good idea in his line of work.

They're always looking for help and hell if he's ever been the guy who helps everyone. Or anyone, for that matter.

He's not a good person. He's known that for a while now, but its funny how no matter how many times he says it to himself nothing ever gets any easier. He expected, somehow, that having proclaimed himself as a bad person things would get easier. That their faces would fade with memory and time and the realization that he was _doing something_ for people.

But drink by drink (night after night) he realizes that although he's doing something for some people, he's making things so much worse for others.

He ignores that- for a while, at least. It's easier that way.

He has few misconceptions about himself. He isn't particularly nice, isn't particularly good. Maybe that's the problem. Maybe he thinks that by saying what he isn't it'll make it easier to face what he is. It isn't- easier, that is.

Bloody nothin' is easy for him. So he does what he can to make it easy.

But Bennet comes along and fuck it all if Bennet doesn't make everything look like a glass of lemonade, simple enough for children. He takes it all in with practised ease, hesitant and cautious at first but after you got a couple beers into him... well, he wasn't so bad.

They're watching each other from across the room.

Bennet invited him home, to his home- Sandra conveniently out of town at a bachelorette party (and damn if Bennet hadn't winced when telling that excuse- such an awful liar. He'd really have to work on that).

A few mostly empty beer bottles are littered around the room, finding homes on each and every flat surface. Claude burps and automatically goes to excuse himself (he had a good mama, after all) but smirks instead when Bennet frowns over at him in reproach.

There ain't nothin' better than riling up the rookie. Especially when that rookie is as high strung and eager to please as this one is.

The TV is on, white noise in the background, and Bennet is perched carefully on the end of the couch as if he were in an ad for safe sitting; back perfectly straight, body at a 90 degree angle. Perfectly poised and yet radiating hesitation, even if he doesn't mean to show it.

Its ridiculous- the whole bloody thing is ridiculous.

With that thought in mind, Claude raises himself from the cushions and stands in front of him for a moment, assessing. Bennet goes still, eyes meeting his before arching an eyebrow in cynical question. The tip of his mouth curls upwards as he goes to speak but Claude gets there first.

"Enough a' this shite. Let's take it upstairs," He murmurs roughly, eyes dancing with amusement and a wary caution.

_This ain't nothin' more- this means nothin' more,_ his eyes seem to say but he knows that Bennet isn't the one that needs to heed their message. This is a huge mistake, but that's never stopped him before. And anyway, he wants this. He _wants_ this and that's enough- it's always been enough.

It seems Bennet wants it too. He's too calm; his indifference too forced and _damn_ is he ever going to have to teach this guy how to not be so obvious. "Is this some initiation ritual I haven't been informed of?"

Claude barks out a laugh and pulls him to his feet by the front of his shirt. "Jus' shut up and show me where the bed is 'fore I 'initiate' ye right on this here floor."

It's almost an accident. It was all lacking in lead up, hints, subtle possibilities on the tips of tongues. Instead there was just a fair amount of alcohol and more than enough stress.

Still.

There's something to be said for easy.

X

The second time it's bittersweet. If by sweet you mean contaminated and the bitter is the taste of his own blood ripe against his tongue.

X

Claude's office is a story set in lies, making Bennet's office, by comparison, a bland truth that's almost as effective in illusion. If only through sheer disbelief that anyone could be so painstakingly perfect with their workplace.

In Claude's office there are papers everywhere but they're just for show. The files he really needs are kept carefully stored in the file cabinet, the semi-important ones piled in a neat column by his computer.

In Bennet's office the files are exactly where they should be, each and every one of them. He is meticulous in his planning and faultless in his logical organization.

That one file out of place, fractionally, tells Claude more than a threat written in blood on his door.

He's not a stupid guy, but sometimes it's easier to pretend that he is in the hopes that someone might believe it.

That's why Claude knows. And that's why he's waiting in front of that desk, in front of that paper that tells him everything he needs to know (and a lot of what he doesn't).

When Bennet walks in the door, forced impassivity in his eyes as he notes the other man in his office, he _knows_ that Claude knows. It's just a decision on whether or not they act on it or leave it in the air between them to eventually sizzle into a full-out confrontation.

They do. Leave it, that is.

Claude stalks to the door, shuts and locks it, but Bennet doesn't even turn around. The blinds are drawn and the light is turned off. He wants to be invisible for this and although he doesn't think Bennet would say anything against that, has no right to say anything at all, it seems better this way.

It's always better when you can't see each other. That's what Claude tells himself as he pulls his shirt out of his pants and runs shaking hands over his face, rubbing sore eyes. Composure isn't always so easy to come by in the light.

It's child's play in the dark.

_How's yer daughter doin'?_ He wants to ask as he pushes Bennet down onto the desk with a simple hand settling heavy on the back of his neck, disturbing careful planning of the paper variety. He pushes forward sharply and ignores the stiffening, the controlled silence beneath him. There's blood in his mouth, tangy and sharp against the bitterness of the tracks on his cheeks.

He shouldn't be surprised. He tells himself he isn't surprised.

_Ye gonna kill everyone who's different? When's it her turn?_

Is it so easy t'get rid'a me?

He feels fierce and angry, hurt, betrayed. With a low growl presses himself against the other man, wanting to make him understand- wanting to transfer his emotions through diffusion, through their bodies so connected. So distant.

They're fully clothed and the scratch of fabric against his cheek only makes him angrier. He wants to convey _everything_; his frustration and horror at what they've been doing, at what he's been doing. Wants this man to understand, this man he hardly recognizes anymore, this man...

He picks himself up afterwards, settles uneasily in the corner, unseen even when Bennet composes himself enough to turn the light back on.

Bennet looks contemplative, conflicted, sore.

_Serves ye._

He doesn't (_can't_) turn away as Bennet picks up the gun and turns it over ever so slowly. He studies it as if he has never seen one before, such a cold and ruthless monster.

Claude isn't sure what he believes about that gun, but from the blood in his mouth and the emptiness where emotion should be, he's pretty sure he doesn't believe much.

Of the gun or the man.

And if Bennet can go and kill him like that, kill him so easy...

Well. Maybe it's time he try something hard.

So he gets in the car.


End file.
